


say what you will for the effort

by ghostwit



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (grimaces) Here we go unfortunately., (starts consuming media) (immediately writes weird porn), Canon Compliant, Character Study, Clothed Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Grinding, M/M, No explicit mention of genitalia b/c I didn't know if I wanted to trans anyone's gender, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, That's like. a coincidence. That doesn't really play a role but :|, Unconventional Masochism, but also uh, just a little?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24385828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: Elias is--well, not surprised, exactly, jolted, yes, that’s the word for it, at least in his skin a little--jolted when Peter Lukas crowds him up against a smooth, marble wall of the Institute, popping into existence with the taste of winter on his heels and fog streaming slow and cold from between his arms.(But you can't fault the technique.)
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 13
Kudos: 88





	say what you will for the effort

**Author's Note:**

> You notice how people who write for this fanbase tend to pick up the cadence of the statements in their work? Huh.
> 
> Also uhhh Peter Blue Balls Moment.

Elias is--well, not surprised, exactly, jolted, yes, that’s the word for it, at least in his skin a little--jolted when Peter Lukas crowds (heh) him up against a smooth, marble wall of the Institute, popping into existence with the taste of winter on his heels and fog streaming slow and cold from between his arms. His hair is tousled wonderfully, salt-kissed and wind-whipped in a veritable mane around his head, and for a few blissful seconds, Elias wants no more than to bury his nose in it, breathe his scent in--and so he does, all ocean wave and waxing sunlight hours, dank sea froth and the kiss of something distinctly _grey_. It’s a wonderful little respite of pure sensation, adoration welling up fit to burst in Elias’ chest, almost feeling the barest tugs of the Lonely, before the prying fingers of the Watcher split his mind open again, set his mouth spluttering. 

“Well, well…” he gasps when his partner hefts him up against the wall, one thigh pressed between knees he knocks apart with a heavy boot, immediately setting a gaze past the shroud of Lonely that still clings damp to Peter’s consciousness to root for the source of his sudden, uncharacteristic eagerness. 

This time, Peter well and truly surprises him. 

“I--” he grinds, almost overwhelming with the way his hands place themselves bluntly on Elias’ hips to drive him down into the motion, then hisses, muttering something to himself, of course. “Do you know?” he huffs into Elias’ throat, the man under him made pliant by the unrelenting drag of fabric between his thighs but still managing an indignant little noise at that word, _know_ \--what _wouldn’t_ he know! There’s sparks skittering up the languid line of his spine from where it’s pressed to the wall, white-hot and delicious, too much and not nearly enough all at once, ever-insatiable.

“Do you know,” he repeats again, more to get a rise out of him than anything, “what it feels like?” He’s snarling, a surprisingly passionate noise that travels right to Elias’ core along with the searing pain from the cleave of his teeth on Elias’ clavicle, tracing a rich claret up his throat. 

“You’re eating me alive, Elias,” he mutters, pure, brittle deadpan that sucks the wind from his throat more than the desperate, writhing tempo he’s built up, bucking until his neatly tucked shirt rides up to bare skin that rubs itself raw against the wall. The man is always so direct, almost stilted. Elias clamps down on a snide "Not really my area of expertise," for the sake of composure. More, more, _more._

And that’s when he finds it, buried in mist, he Knows it, inundating his senses even as the captain mumbles it against the alabaster column of his bitten throat, unmarked skin rivaling the white walls. _I’m being whittled, should it hurt?_ Elias’ lips quirk up in the corners and he lets out a long, staggering moan, unfettered and echoing--an almost _lonely_ sound, if not for the way it tips into Peter’s name. 

“Peter, Peter…” the man responds only with a more insistent press of his thigh, unyielding and coarse to the point of pain, making the other hiccup on his next aborted roll, “I love you, dear. Is that what you need to hear?” The captain cries out at that, if just a little, a muted noise of pain and horror, a full body twitch of absolute repulsion that only sets Elias grinding harder. 

It’s wonderful, a dream, really, thoughts laid bare, just like the husky rasp of Peter’s voice right in his ear--but not, not at all, the Watcher unfit to be compared to any other senses, in some way. The knowledge lies bone deep, filling out the spaces where the marrow should sit. His hands are so wide and cool on his narrow hips, so forceful and confident, somehow finding that sliver of exposed skin and resting on it as if to leach away any of the gathering heat. And yet, he's yielding for him, letting him taste the way the prying, ceaseless watching and _knowing_ \--and then in tandem, the product of Elias' own affection, the _understanding_ \--so antithetical to isolation, make him ache and smart down to every corner of his soul. The pace picks up, chafing and awkward but still sending gritted-teeth pops of pleasure trailing over every inch of skin, radiating from everywhere Peter looms over him.

Loneliness is characterized, typically, with an absence of other--large, empty stretches devoid of heartbeat until you alone exist in some sort of strange, abstract, untethered; loneliness warps the soul and drives you hollow and starved and aching and satiated all in one, cleaned out and set to flutter awash in some sort of perverse self-importance. 

Yet, there is one connection that can't be severed, chattering ceaselessly, diverging and tumbling and running over itself in unmitigated, well, everything (the way Peter likes it, though, primarily fear). It is a horrible thing to have, at times, accosting any real peace, any real _purity_ , the forceful living with the self. 

Elias is smothering him, he realizes, forcing that babbling little primitive self into hiding with the pure heat, intensity, exquisite pain of company gnawing away at Peter as Elias cups his cheeks, feeling his beard rasp under his long, elegant fingers, dips his head down to lay a smattering of kisses that end open-mouthed and panting: over his cheeks, the wonderful, pale bridge of his nose, teasing, sloppy kisses to the edge of his mouth and beard. Anything to hurt him. 

And it's with that realization, panting out a high, cruel "I love you!" that rakes like sharpened fork tines across the overblown nerves of Peter's consciousness, that Elias comes in his pants, hips still being forced to painfully stutter, back, forth, smooth stone, plush coat, over the dark cut of the captain's trousers. 

The creeping chill is back to shelter Peter's thoughts from Elias' careful picking, a bit of a damper on his orgasm even as he gets worked through it but so decidedly _Peter_ that his spine quivers for a moment. He gathers himself quickly, heaving and gasping to grab thick, woolen lapels and haul Peter in for a final kiss: close-lipped, yet paradoxically deep and adoring. He tries to paw for the other man's zipper, thighs twitching inwardly, but he knows (lowercase "know" this time, intuition for his partner rather than any of his more specialized gifts) the effort won't yield anything.

"Dinner later," he huffs on principle, determined on securing the final word--even if the taller man had long ceased his verbal communications. The afterimage of fog leaves him in the hall of his institute, flush high on his cheek and collar, slacks and thighs embarrassingly smattered with fast-cooling wet, longing lodged deeply in his gut despite the sleepy satedness of orgasm that threatens his waning composure. 

He wipes sweaty palms over his thighs, more a perfunctory brushing than anything, seeing as how utterly soiled his pants are. The click of his heel on tile as he makes towards his office echoes loud, drowning out the hanging static. 

Peter’s heaving when he disappears back into the Lonely, the ghosts of fingers brushing over his fly in a quiet _vrrt_ of keratin on metal sending a shiver up his spine. He feels sick, nauseous and dizzy in a rollick rivaling the churn of the sea he’s so acquainted with. While he’s not usually the one to feed his patron, he’s content to ache for it, breathing hard and resting his hands on his knees amidst meandering haze fraught with the sharp scent of ice. 

He closes his eyes, pleased with the way the heat lingering on his skin is wicked away to leave only a cold that seeps into him and then right on past, crossing him over inside-out and permeating the air around him. He’s sated, eager to leave Elias sitting reliably across from an empty placemat to drink two glasses of wine on his lonesome later today. Peter wouldn’t dare disrupt the routine. He _does_ love the man, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't know if I really conveyed what I wanted with any clarity, think their intentions got bogged down a little by all the Words but like. it's fine =_= not every work needs to be successful.  
> I actually have three of these in my drafts. Figures that this one would get finished first. ..... . Do not look at me . 
> 
> Leave a comment/concrit/something if you enjoyed/have any other feelings, I adore hearing feedback.
> 
> hazeism.tumblr.com


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